Page 99 of Cruel Juliet

Excuses, all of them.

Still, I’ve been waiting for this moment. I’ve wanted to tell him. He deserves to know everything.

Inside, the air smells like disinfectant. I’ve grown to hate it. Every day I went into the hospital while Dimitri was still comatose, that fucking smell hit me. It’s the only thing I remember clearly from those days.

That, and the guilt.

A nurse leads me down the hall to the common room. My shoes are too loud against the tile.

Dimitri is sitting by the window when I walk in, engrossed in a chess match with an older resident. He’s thinner than I remember. Paler.

But awake. Alive.

That’s what matters.

His eyes shift toward me. I wonder if he’ll recognize me.

“Hey, Mitya,” I say quietly.

Dimitri blinks. I brace myself for the inevitable disappointment of his clouded state of mind. Kira’s been warning me, after all.

But then, against all expectations, his face breaks into a grin. “Look what the cat dragged in!”

His sudden cheer throws me for a loop. He looks so much like his older self, I can feel myself getting whiplash. Most of all, he clearly recognizes me.

I school my face and take the chair beside his bed. “You’re looking better.”

He lets out a sound halfway between a laugh and a cough. “You fucking liar. I look like shit.” He turns to his playmate. “Don’t I look like shit, Igor?”

“Da.”

Dimitri’s voice floors me. Because it’shisvoice. The one that used to fill every room he entered. Strong, booming. Still veiled by a hint of hoarseness, but otherwise instantly recognizable.

I force myself to shrug and act casual. “Maybe a little.”

I look hard at his face: the hollows under his eyes, the tremor in his hands when he reaches for his water. It hurts to see him like this. He was always the strong one. The leader. The one who never faltered.

But he’s way better off than I imagined, and I can’t help the rush of warmth that comes with that.

“I have news,” I say. “You’re an uncle.”

His brow furrows as he processes it. “Did Mikh get some poor girl pregnant?”

“Not Mikh.” I fight down a smirk. “I got married.”

“No shit.” His jaw practically wipes the floor. He pushes aside his chessboard—“Oh, fuck off, Igor!”—and stares at me like he’s trying to guess whether I’m fucking with him.

Tough shit. I’m not.

He must see it on my face. “You dog!” His arm claps onto my shoulders. It’s a little uncoordinated, the blow way too light, but it still lands. “When were you gonna tell me?”

“Technically, Ididtell you.”

“Telling me while I was in a fucking coma doesn’t count.”

“Then I’ll tell you again.” I take Igor’s vacated place and settle across from him. “I’m married. My wife’s name is Sima. Yesterday, our little girl was born.”

“You’ve got a daughter.” I can hear the slight stammer in his speech, but frankly, it’s nothing compared to what I was expecting. “Fuck you, man. You never do shit when I’m around. Then I go to sleep for a couple of months, and suddenly, you’re a dad?” He attempts a low whistle and fails. But the sentiment is there. “I should get myself sniped more often.”